The Other Guys
by Mockingtale
Summary: There are agents, heroes, scientists and then there are the other guys: janitors, shipment drivers. Melissa Fullman has been in S.H.I.E.L.D for her entire life, but when a god emerges from a portal in a desert, she is forced to work for him— along with an Agent Barton. When she wakes up more alone than ever in Germany, she has to somehow save him. But what can a mere everyman do?


_**Prologue**_

_**Sentient**_

"_Man makes plans… and God laughs"_

– _Michael Chabon_

How did it come to this?

I can't believe I'm here. _I can't believe I'm here_. The thought repeats and repeats itself like a high-speed movie projector dragging each individual film picture through its lens, the movement a violent blur until the images start overlapping in a frantic, disjointed chaos– and the only thing keeping me from screeching to a stop to vomit is the fear that chokes me like a cold stone in my throat. _I can't breathe_.

The air snatches snidely at my face and hair as I run, my feet pounding against the concrete floor. Panic and the instinct for survival dictate my every movement as I dash through the never-ending factory. _Why is it so goddamn big?_ Towering shelves of ancient cast-iron loom before me, like silent, creaky sentinels cloaked in shadow– watching and waiting, and oh so silent.

I can only hear me.

_Oh god. Oh god. Please please please. Please, god, please. Please, please!_

The words lose their meaning after many futile repetitions on my numb tongue. I gag painfully, my throat making a retching noise as I struggle to hold my vomit in. My skin feels cold and clammy, a thin layer of sweat clinging to the surface like spider webs. My breaths are short and sharp and I swear to god, I think I have started sobbing underneath my breath. The thought is confirmed when hot runny tears trickle down my cheeks as I gasp for another lungful of air.

_Where is the exit? WHERE IS THE FUCKING EXIT?_

I am running alone in a silent factory. The ceiling rises above me into the empty darkness and two orderly rows of tall iron shelves stand on either side of me, rising to the cavernous heights. They are like giant soldiers solemnly standing in line, watching me quietly with soulless eyes as I flee through their ranks. The place is so big, so voluminous and the silence that is screaming into my ears and wringing my throat has an almost haunting element to it. This place too fucking big, oh god, I don't know where I'm going. I keep running and running and running and the shelves go on and on and on.

It is ironic how loud I'm screaming at myself within this dead serene.

I run too close to an iron shelf and my hand snaps against the metal frame, resounding with a sickening crack. Pain surges up my hand and something within me snaps. The dam that has barely held my torrent of internal emotions crumbles like brittle paper, and I collapse heavily to the ground, a raging fire burning and consuming my fingers. The hushed, horrified _Oh god, my fingers, I think they're broken_ and the screaming and thrashing _RUN! DON'T STOP _fight for space inside my head. Something bitter and acidic burns up my throat, forcing its way into my mouth where it scorches my tongue. I clutch to the iron shelf with my uninjured hand and start retching violently.

My throat seizes up, but nothing passes out of my mouth except for bitter, viscous stomach fluids. The tears that are now running down my face combined with my wrecking sobs only force my throat to seize up more, and the force of it makes me think for a moment that I am going to vomit my stomach out. _No, no, you can't stop! _Every fiber of my being is begging for me to keep running, to please _please you have to get up now_. They are coming for me. They are behind me. They are behind me. They are behind me. They are behind me. They're going to kill me.

_No no no no no no no._

I am so scared. I am so scared. I think they are still chasing me. _Oh god, I'm so scared. I don't want to die! Not like– not like this. Loki– Barton– I have to warn S.H.I.E.L.D–, oh god, monsters. They're all monsters. What they done– what they–_

My panicked thoughts are interrupted by another round of dry retching and another loud, broken sob escapes my throat. My clammy fingers tighten around the gritty metal frame.

"_Are you sure you want to do this?"_

A feminine voice, soft and alluring whispers suddenly from behind me. My head snaps up, my sight blurred by tears as I look around frantically. "Who's there?" I demand in a hoarse, cracking voice, stomach fluid dribbling down my mouth. The start of a monstrous headache starts pounding in my head like the slow crashes of a hammer and I wince at the pain. The internal of my throat feels bruised and raw. I feel like I've just swallowed heated coals.

Putting my head in between my hands, I push my palms desperately against the sides, as if the exerted pressure will relieve me of the increasing pounding. It doesn't.

The silence of the factory mocks me, thick with some unspoken history. This factory is old and abandoned, the white walls already peeling off its outer coat to reveal the eroding concrete beneath it. The monstrous shelves are as wide as a school bus and taller than three stories– and their corroded frames, thick with layers of orange-brown rust keep repeating themselves, spaced equally apart in the two rows on either sides of me. And they just keep going on and on and on.

A jagged sob tears its way up my throat, my face screwed up in despair. My headache worsens, soon overtaking the pain of my swollen throat and my broken fingers as it consumes my head and devours my focus. _And I need my focus, I need to focus. Where is the exit? WHERE IS THE EXIT?_

"You shouldn't have run like that." A casual voice, smooth and muted all at once sounds to my right and my already weak stomach jolts. I spin around to face him. Panic flaring up and shoving despair deep into the empty pits of my stomach. If I didn't puke out my stomach, I was probably going to puke out my heart right now.

The twilight sun catches his hair and his belt as he leans on his side comfortably– cross-armed– against the rusty shelf leg where my already shaking hands are grabbing for support. The shock of his sudden appearance propels me upwards, but the pain of my headache and the sudden flare in my fingers weaken my knees and I collapse like a broken marionette to the ground. He doesn't react, merely watching me, eyes as brilliantly bright as blue electricity.

"Agent Barton", I try my best to speak with my swollen throat. Fear is threaded into my tone and I put my palms up in front of him in a placating manner. "Please, can't you remember me?" I whisper brokenly, my stupid _stupid _throat feeling each vibration that thrums from my voice box– and it hurts. The cool breeze is stinging on my broken fingers and my head, my _fucking _head.

_He's found me._

_Oh god, no._

He does not respond, but he stares at me like prey, his bright eyes watchful and so utterly _inhuman_. My heart is racing, forcing me to take in quick gulps of air that burn my lungs as I force my stupid throat to swallow. "It's me", I beg in a hoarse whisper. "Remember? Melissa Fullman? I talked to you in New Mexico?"

He does not react, does not stir; as if he cannot recognize me, or any of the names (_Maria Hill, Phil Coulson, Mojave, Nick Fury, Thor, Sitwell, can't you remember them? S.H.I.E.L.D! You have to remember!_) I am throwing at him right now like weakly-flung daggers at a last ditch attempt to bring the agent, _bring back that S.H.I.E.L.D agent _that I trusted and tried to save- bring him back because _this isn't Clint Barton right now._

"Melissa Fullman, Maintenance Personnel, I brought you coffee in New Mexico, remember? Thor's hammer? I said you needed to eat and I brought you lunch everyday after that. Remember? Everyday, three o'clock and– _Oh god please, Barton, it's me!_"

The gun that suddenly appears in his hand is aimed at me. Small, easily concealable, black and gleaming like some precious metal under the little light provided– and the nozzle is aimed at me. Suddenly it's all I can think about.

"I do remember", he cocks his handgun readily; his stare is inhuman but all at once it is startling aware. The sharpness and perceptiveness that line every angle of his face and smooth any emotion from his brow is so _him_. It suddenly dawns on me that this agent knows perfectly well who he is, and perfectly well who am I– and perfectly well what he is doing. _This is Clint Barton right now._

"That's the point." He remarks genially, as if what he is doing now doesn't matter, as if _this is all just business_. There is a beat before he pulls the trigger and I all can remember before searing pain blooms in my chest is a flash of light and the crack of thunder.

My back hits the concrete ground hard. Somewhere in my mind, dimly, I am aware of something sticky and warm spreading all over me, trickling up my neck and pooling in the small crevice of my collarbone. The cloying smell smothers my nostrils with its sweet scent. _Too sweet_. I stare up dazed at the ceiling shrouded in shadows.

It is so quiet. I can't feel anything.

His face moves into my view, his black eyes surveying me, criticizing his handiwork.

The black handgun is aimed at me again, in between my eyes. I can barely feel the cool surface of the metal between my eyebrows, and I am suddenly so very tired.

"Please, Clint," I whisper. My own voice sounds distant in my ears and my sight has already descended into a static buzz. "Please… please don't kill me."

_Please_

There is another crack of thunder.


End file.
